Soul Song (22 page)

“She raped me,” he said, and even though Kit had already suspected as much, to hear it said out loud was terrible, shocking. “Every day, in body and mind. It is a wonder I still want anyone at all.” He cupped her face between his hands and stared into her eyes with such intensity she forgot to breathe. “But I do. I want
you.
I wanted you the first time I saw you playing your violin on that stage.”

“Last night,” Kit murmured.

“Last night,” he echoed. “Terrifying.”

Kit pushed herself up his chest until she could lean over his face and stare directly into his eyes. The heat from the embers of the fire bathed her exposed shoulders and arms. The rest of her was warm. She did not want to talk. There was too much music in her head, too many notes to keep inside, but her fiddle was not there and she could not sing.

But there was a golden thread between her heart and M’cal’s; a hook and line she had thrown to him while on the boat. A tenuous connection, one she had no name for, and something she had never considered possible. But it was there, and she used it, adding other strings, playing a symphony on them inside her head.

“I can hear you,” M’cal said with a touch of wonder in his voice. “I can hear that music.”

“Good,” she whispered. “I don’t know what that means, but good.”

He smiled sadly and kissed her, slow and deep, his hands roving down her body; light, like wings or a melody. He was gentle with her, and she responded in kind, and though they did not go as far as they could have, it was good to be held so tightly; good to look into a face that stared back with as much raw reverence as that with which her own heart ached.

M’cal kissed her throat. He kissed her breast. He kissed her cheek and pressed his mouth close to her ear. “Never again, until I met you. Never again, after.”

Kit smiled. “That is an ominous compliment, M’cal.”

“But the truth.”

“You have a bigger heart than that.” She traced a circle over his sinewy shoulder. “Besides, it’s a huge world. Lots of ocean. Plenty of hot chicks with tails out there who would probably tie themselves in knots for you. You might find someone you like better than little ol’ me.”

He pushed her away to look into her eyes. “And you? Do you think there is someone better for you?”

“No,” Kit said. “I really don’t.”

M’cal picked up her hand, and enough light emanated from the hot coals for her to see his skin shift, scales rising from his flesh, which became harder, silkier. Webbing appeared between his long, strong fingers.

“When I left home,” he said, “I became a gypsy. I labored at odd jobs across Europe, though I stayed for several years in Greece, helping marine archaeologists search for artifacts in the sea. The work was ... rewarding. But I moved on eventually. I am a nomad. It is in my blood. My father was the same, but for my mother he found roots. It was difficult for him, though. Krackeni drift, always.” M’cal squeezed her hand. “But they do not drift in their hearts. If anything remains constant, it is that.”

Kit studied his face, trying to memorize every line; the curve of his brow, the soft sweep of his mouth. “I don’t own a home, M’cal. I have enough money to buy ten, but the only home I’ve ever counted on is my family, and that has always been enough. Because all I need is here.” She placed her hand over her heart. “I’ve been on the road almost as long as you have, since I was seventeen, and I don’t plan on slowing down. I don’t think I could, not for long. And no one ... no one has ever been able to keep up with that. Or understand.”

“And if I understood? If I could . .. keep up?”

“Then I guess my home would get a little larger,” she whispered.

Something fierce entered M’cal’s eyes, and he carefully untangled himself and stood. Kit tried to follow, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. She stayed still as he wrapped her tight in a cocoon of blankets; remained silent when he picked her up in his arms and carried her from the cabin.

The forest was dark, but she could see better this time. The sea was close, only a stone’s throw away. M’cal carried her to the shore and set her down on the rocks. The air was cool against her face.

“Are you strong enough to enter the water again? It would only be for a moment.” His voice was quiet, but held an urgency that made her nod, without question. She unwrapped herself from the blankets, and M’cal helped her lay them aside. He picked her up again, and carried her into the water. She gasped as the waves hit her. It was as cold as she remembered.

M’cal took her all the way in, transforming as he did. She could feel his legs mold together, skin rubbing into scales against her naked legs. His tail undulated gently, keeping them afloat.

“You know,” she said to him, fighting a shiver, “I just got over freezing my ass off.”

“Forgive me,” he replied. “But I am afraid to wait.”

It was difficult to see his face, but she could feel the tension in his body. “Wait for what?”

“It is only a ritual,” he said, so quiet his voice was almost masked by the lapping of the waves against the shore. “There is nothing binding to it, Kitala. But it means something to my people, and to me.”

“What?” she asked again, shivering.

“I give you my protection,” he told her, dragging his wet thumb across her forehead. “I give you my song, so that it will keep you safe.”

He bent close and placed his mouth over hers. But it was no kiss. Kit felt a rush of air enter her throat, like being plowed with a stiff breeze, and it was followed by sound: his voice, rumbling through her like a mountain shaking free of its roots, or the edge of a tsunami touching the sky. There was no melody, no music; just power, like that same power she had felt while listening to the song of her soul, hidden inside that pale conch shell.

M’cal’s soul,
whispered a tiny voice.
He is giving you part of it.

She drank it down, feeling it push back the cold to seep into her bones, her heart. Like being filled with the sky or some endless expanse of blue ocean. M’cal began to pull away, but Kit grabbed the back of his head, holding him to her. She could hear her own song, her own melody of storm and dawn, and though she did not know what she was doing, instinct was enough. She felt that music pouring up her throat, and she willed a piece of it into M’cal. A thread, like the one she had already hooked into him. Her own protection. Her own song.

M’cal shuddered against her, but when he broke free he did not speak. Only stared, eyes haunted. Kit waited, watching him. But still, not a word.

His kiss was more than enough when he leaned in and covered her mouth with his, dragging from her a gasp of pleasure. Kit wrapped her legs around his hips, kissing him back, tasting salt water and heat and everything M’cal. His hands threaded through her hair; she felt something thick press against her lower body. Kit reached down to touch his erection. The skin was different; soft yet bumpy, partially hidden by a pouch in his body. She looked into M’cal’s face, hunting to meet his eyes.

She did so, and she found them torn with desire and hunger, a dark intensity Kit found tremendously erotic, because it was for her, because he was suddenly inside her, thick and hot, pushing so deep she cried out, gasping with pleasure. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, and then, so slowly she hardly knew what he was doing, he began undulating the lower half of his body—shallow movements at first, and then faster and faster—with a steep arch in his tail that she could feel against her legs as he slammed against her, driving himself again and again into her body. He held on to her hips, leaning her backward as their joined bodies pushed through the water, splashing and writhing around each other, and the pleasure built so fine and hot and hard that when she did finally come it was violent, blinding, shattering.

M’cal gasped her name, shuddering in her arms, and they sank underwater, spinning and twisting. It felt like forever—Kit holding her breath—but then they surfaced and she could breathe again, and M’cal was looking at her, trembling, his gaze so raw she touched his face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, but she knew it was a lie. Kit felt M’cal’s tension as he swam them back to shore, carrying her free of the water, wrapping her securely in the wool blankets. She hardly felt the cold; it seemed there was a furnace glowing inside her body, as if that piece of M’cal’s soul was a tiny sun, spinning heat.

Only when they were inside the cabin, seated in front of the fireplace, with M’cal stoking the coals and adding more wood, did she say, “Tell me.”

He hesitated. “Tell you what?”

She touched his arm. “What happened out there?”

“A ritual—”

“No,” she interrupted. “Later. You were upset.”

He looked away from her, at the fire. “I have never .. . felt this way about anyone. Never so strongly. And I have never been given so much. I am afraid of losing you, Kitala. I felt it out there, the loss. Almost like it had already happened. And it frightened me.”

Kit leaned forward, the blankets slipping off her body. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, trying to melt into his damp skin. “Don’t be scared. Please, M’cal.”
Please. Please don’t leave me, either.

“Ah,” he whispered. “Easier said than done.”

Foolish, dragging her into the ocean without asking, without considering the consequences. Even after all these years, he still acted before thinking. But fear could do that to a man: undermine his common sense. Drive him to any act if it meant protecting what he held most dear.

He had lied to Kitala, if an omission could be counted as a lie. What he had done was more than a ritual, and certainly binding—though only on his end, not hers. She was free, and always would be. But whether she knew it or not, he was part of her now— and there would be no other, not for him, not for the rest of his life. And should she ever meet other Krackenis, they would feel it, too.

His mate. His wife. Carrying a part of his soul in her heart.

Just as you are carrying hers,
he told himself, feeling that bright shard lodged like a prism; on one side sunlight, and on the other, a storm. Burning and raging and singing. Kitala Bell. Keeping his soul warm.

He closed his eyes, still marveling, and wondered if she realized, or if it had been only an accident, instinct: claiming him, just as he had claimed her.

M’cal touched her hair, his palm bouncing gently off her thick curls. She stirred, but did not wake. Her skin glowed in the firelight. Looking at her made his throat thick, his chest ache. He remembered love. He remembered what it had felt like to love the witch. If she had not been so hasty in capturing him, he might have performed the ritual with her instead—a monumental mistake, terrifying to imagine. Although, what he felt for Kitala was so much stronger, so much
purer,
he wondered if, down deep, he had even then known the witch could not possibly be the one.

Because it had never been like this. As though just touching Kitala’s hand was the same as making love. As though he lived and breathed by the beat of her heart.

But you still belong to the witch. Kitala might have blocked the compulsion, but that woman is still waiting on the other side. She is not dead. And you are endangering Kitala with your presence.

She made a small sound, jerking slightly. A tremor entered M’cal’s heart—an uneasiness not his own— and he lay down beside her, curling his arm around her waist. She flinched when he touched her, and then settled back in his embrace. Still asleep.

M’cal closed his eyes, resting. It was a Krackeni trick, much like one used by dolphins and whales— dozing while conscious, semiaware of his surroundings while half of his brain settled into a sleep cycle. Not as good as full sleep, but it would do for now.

“Nifty trick,” someone said. M’cal’s eyes snapped open, staring.

An old woman crouched in front of the fire beside him. She wore a red skirt and a loose white blouse. Her skin was dark, her hair short and gray. She had features of beauty, but age and weight had taken their toll.

“Inside is what counts.” She looked at him sideways with a curt smile. “Not that many could compete with
your
pretty face, though I suspect it’s been more burden than aid. Otter like you would have more peace if his pelt weren’t so fine.”

M’cal sat up slowly, glancing at Kitala. She still slept. The old woman chuckled. “That one always was a log.”

“Who are you?” M’cal drew the blanket over his lap. “How did you get in here?”

She smiled. “You dreamed me in, son. And as to who I am, take a gander into these eyes of mine. Maybe dream you an answer, too.”

There was nothing overtly dangerous in her voice, so he peered into her eyes, studying them. The answer had already been on the tip of his tongue—instinct— but the dark warmth in her gaze confirmed it. The old woman smiled. “Good. That was a test, you know. See how well you know my little Kitty Bella.”

“You are supposed to be dead,” M’cal said.

Her smile widened. “Heart stopped beatin’, that’s all. More to living than flesh and blood. You should know that better than anyone.”

He hesitated. “I know Kitala would like to see you.”

“Oh, she sees me plenty. It’s you I came for this time. Satan loads his cannons with big watermelons, Krackeni. And right now you’ve got a field of ‘em aimed right up your backside.”

M’cal’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

The old woman put her hands directly into the fire and held them there with a sigh. “The world is a circle, spins in a circle, and makes our lives the same. Can’t be expecting nothing else, except what’s come before. Which means, in my wiggly talk, that the bad times are circling ‘round again. Days like they were before the big flood, before history started a second time and forgot the darkness.” She gave him a hard look. “I think you know what I mean.”

“The old wars,” he said slowly. “I have heard the stories. Battles of magic.”

“Nasty creatures. Demons.” The old woman took her hands out of the fire. Smoke rose from her fingertips. “Some of them survived.”

Kitala still slept. M’cal said, “What does that have to do with us?”

The old woman did not answer. She held her hand above her granddaughter’s head and murmured a soft word. A chill passed over M’cal’s skin, and he watched that strong, round body stand straight and tall.

He stood with her, holding the blanket against him. “Please. Tell me.”

The old woman shook her head, still gazing at Kitala. “Word of advice, son. Watch out when you’re getting all you want. Fattened hogs ain’t in luck.”

And with that, she disappeared. M’cal stared, ears ringing. A disquieting experience, unnerving. He lay down on his back, staring at the ceiling, fingering the bracelet, which was cold.

The sun was just beginning to rise when Kitala opened her eyes. She yawned, and the cover slipped off. M’cal stared.

“Like the view?” she asked.

“Yes.” He brushed his finger against her firm round breast, and she looked down. Her skin was perfect. Not a bruise or scratch. Kitala made a quiet sound, and M’cal reached out to turn her head. The puncture wounds were gone as well.

Kitala touched her neck, eyes darkening. M’cal crouched close and covered her hand with his. Pulled it away. Ran his fingers over her healed skin. She shivered, watching him. “I suppose you want an explanation.”

“No,” he said. “That is unnecessary.”

She gave him an uncertain look, but M’cal said nothing. There was a reason the old woman had not shown herself to her granddaughter. He could not guess what it was, but he was willing to take it on faith. As with many things in his life.

“I am glad you are healed,” he said carefully.

Kitala glanced at her breast. M’cal tilted up her chin, forcing her to look at him. He said nothing, simply drinking in her face, the quick emotion passing through her eyes; the lines and curves of her cheeks and brow and chin. Her skin, smooth and soft as dark cream, framed by a crown of brown curls streaked with gold.

“What?” she asked, but the corner of her mouth curved and her eyes were warm. He kissed her, and Kitala leaned into him, smiling against his mouth.

She stood, clutching the blanket around her body. Tall and lovely as a queen. She turned in a slow circle, gazing at the cabin, which was—as Koni had said—little better than a stationary tent. No furniture, except for a tall metal cabinet in the corner that contained small sundries, more blankets, canned food. M’cal had planned on stocking more things, but time had run away, as had his freedom.

Kitala’s stomach growled. M’cal smiled, and stood. Walked to the cabinet. Felt her gaze roving over his naked body. It aroused him, but his back was to her as he opened the metal doors—caught the flash of a mouse’s tail—and said, “We have peaches, spinach. Bottled water.”

“Did you bring this food for yourself? I would think you could just. .. fish . . . for your supper.”

“I suppose,” he said. “Call it nostalgia.”

“Ah,” she replied gently. “Do you have a can opener?”

M’cal found one, and turned. Kitala was naked, the blanket pooled around her feet. She glanced down and smiled almost shyly.

“You know,” she said, “I’m having trouble deciding what to eat first.”

His erection got harder, more painful. Kitala sidled close and took away the can opener. She reached around him to place it back in the cabinet, her entire body rubbing warm and soft against him. Her long, clever fingers slid down his stomach, stroking, and her smile became dark, hungry.

Kitala dropped to her knees. M’cal could not have stopped her even if he wanted to—and he did not. Her hands were magic, sliding like right rings up and down his shaft, stroking in opposite directions. Her mouth touched him, sucking lightly—engulfing him entirely—and the twisting sensation, the wet heat, was too much for restraint. He dragged them both down to the floor, Kitala letting go of him for only a moment before he pushed her flat. Instead of entering her, though, he twisted, crawling down her body on his hands and knees. She spread her legs, and as he bent to lap at her, her mouth touched his shaft once again, her swirling tongue running a racetrack around his throbbing erection.

He did the same with his own tongue, and Kitala gasped, her back arching. He did it again and again, becoming more excited with her every cry and touch, and it became a game, them mirroring each other, taking each other higher and higher with their fingers and mouths until they were coiled so tight with pleasure that when Kitala broke, he was there with her, shuddering and thrusting against her tight, wicked hands. They collapsed into a tangled heap of arms and legs. Kitala started laughing weakly. M’cal dragged her close for a long, wet kiss that made her writhe beneath him, laughter still bubbling against his mouth. She sounded like music. Tasted the same.

But her stomach growled again. There was a box of plastic forks in the cabinet; they ate from the cans. M’cal was not hungry, but he forced himself to take each bite, soaking up the moment, every sound and breath and taste. The mundane felt fresh and new, like seeing a rainbow in color for the first time.

“Please tell me you have an outhouse and toilet paper,” Kitala suddenly said, putting down her can of peaches. He hesitated, staring, and she closed her eyes like it suddenly hurt to look at him.

“Right,” she muttered. “This is going to be ugly.”

She wrapped the blanket around her body and with a brief, strained smile, marched out the front door. He hoped she knew better than to get close to nettles. Or poison ivy.

The thought made him stand up and go after her. Better safe than sorry. He was halfway to the door when he heard her scream.

M’cal ran. The air was cool outside, the sky blue. Evergreens glittered with dew. He could see the ocean and the edges of the cove, curling like rocky hands. But no Kitala. No sounds either. He did not call out to her. He listened inside his heart and looked for her the Krackeni way, as though separated with miles of ocean between them: soul to soul, because they were linked now, forever.

He found her, and the sensation felt like strings cutting into his skin. He ran, his voice rising out of his throat like a tidal wave, roaring. Through the trees he saw movement, dark clothing, and then Kitala cried out again, an angry shout. M’cal sang to her, savoring the surge of power twisting in his mouth. It was a different kind of melody; darker, savage. He had changed after Ivan. Something had changed.

He burst into a clearing filled with men, at least six, dressed in hunting fatigues, holding rifles. Not one of them moved, but their eyes rolled in his direction, and their breath rattled high and sharp in their throats. It was easy to control them. He could taste their souls fluttering, but he crushed those tiny wings, asserting his control. Like the witch, he was the puppeteer and his song was their strings. M’cal’s voice snarled a harsher note and they fell to their knees.

Kitala stood on the far side of the clearing, clutching the blanket to her breasts. A woman held her around the throat, a pistol to her head. Black hair, dark eyes, lithe figure. Very familiar. Another man stood at her side. M’cal also knew his face. His throat was covered in a raw red line.

Both of the pair wore massive plastic guards over their ears, thin black wires trailing to pouches on their belts. Neither seemed affected by his voice. Nor did they appear surprised that he still lived.

“Close your mouth or I will shoot her,” shouted the woman.
Yu,
he remembered. She spoke with an odd inflection, as though she could not hear herself. Her voice wavered, too; perhaps with stress.

M’cal looked at Kitala. Her eyes were wide, but her mouth was set, jaw tight.
Keep singing,
he imagined her saying, but then he heard those words again, louder inside his mind, and they felt like something more than just imagination. Intrusive, even.
Please,
she whispered.
Run.
The man beside Yu aimed his rifle at M’cal. There was a hand-axe strapped to his side. One shot, one hack. Game over. He did not think he could grow a new head. But putting Kitala in the line of fire was no answer. There was no way to know how bad—or good—a shot these men on their knees really were. And he did not know how far her body could heal. No grandmother in sight, either.

Run,
Kit pleaded, her gaze sliding sideways to the rifle pointed at his head.
They don’t want me dead. You can find me. Please, M’cal.

“Dick,” said the woman, and the man’s hand tightened on the trigger. Kitala cried out. M’cal changed his song—yanked a string.